She warmed to him fast, her anger was much harder to carry than the pleasant everyday neutrality of affection. "My demeanour ought to convince you that I came with no hostile intention. . . She could not resist enduing persons she met with the noble attributes of the fictional characters. "You poor child!" said Prudence. The boy was right. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. Now, for the cage, my pretty canary-bird. ” “Much better,” she agreed. I've destroyed my only chance.
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